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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24969661">his every breath was music</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeYhem/pseuds/raeYhem'>raeYhem</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Drinking, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fix-It, Hanahaki Disease, Heavy Angst, Idiots in Love, It's gonna be okay tho, Jaskier DRINKS, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Love Confessions, M/M, Make Geralt Apologise 2020, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Canon Compliant, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Unrequited Love, but like trough severe alcohol poisoning, extremely self indulgent, i get to be mean to Jaskier, it's two am and I want to write Pain, no beta we die like women, probably should have started with the hanahaki disease, the group has one braincell and roach owns it, this has already been written but fuck god ill write again, wingman roach</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:22:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,657</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24969661</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeYhem/pseuds/raeYhem</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The first time Jaskier felt the pang in his chest was when he idly sat at the window, watching Geralt and the witch, well, fuck. He made a few off hand comments about their liveliness but as he walked away, something gathered in his throat. He coughed, when he remained alone with Roach, falling to his knees, as panic filled his head, coughing and coughing and coughing-</i><br/> <br/><i>Until he found himself holding a petal in the hands he had used to shelter his mouth. He pulled it away from his face, slowly, disbelief filling him. </i><br/><i>W-what the fuck…?</i><br/><br/>Jaskier knows something is wrong with him. What reason does he have to share it? Luckily for him, Geralt has always been too observant for his own good.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>581</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. are we to drown in this silence?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>EDIT: now with <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CGJ3zd6gHdH/">lovely art</a> by my dear friend <a href="https://www.instagram.com/maiolus/?hl=en">mailous</a> go check him out hes rlly talented and doing goretober rn!!!!!</p><p>i know im supposed to be writing for ABATCALS but  l i s t e n  there's like 6000 gerskier fanfics and i've had this in my drafs for months i gotta all the titles are from poems of mine :D</p><p>no beta bcs I have no friends yeeyeeㅠㅠ</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time Jaskier felt the pang in his chest was when he idly sat at the window, watching Geralt and the witch, well, fuck. He made a few off hand comments about their liveliness but as he walked away, something gathered in his throat. He coughed, when he remained alone with Roach, falling to his knees, as panic filled his head, coughing and coughing and coughing-</p><p>Until he found himself holding a petal in the hands he had used to shelter his mouth. He pulled it away from his face, slowly, disbelief filling him. <i>W-what the fuck…?</i></p><p>Roach grunted and nudged him in a rare act of compassion and Jaskier frowned. The horse looked at him almost pitifully but he huffed. “Ah, what’s gotten into you?”</p><p>He threw away the petal. Probably the witch had seen him and decided to give him a headache. Yes, that was certainly it.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>	A week later, as Jaskier trailed behind Geralt as usual, chatting about this and that, he once again felt that weight in his chest. He didn’t let it stop him, although his voice grew hoarse as he spoke. Geralt didn’t seem to notice, gazing absently in the distance. Roach did huff and shook her head as Jaskier began coughing violently yet again, clutching his chest.</p><p>Snapped from his reverie, Geralt noticed the chatter had been replaced by ugly heaving and he turned to see the bard on his knees, propped on his hands, his eyes wide and bloodshot.</p><p>His brows furrowed and he approached the young man, putting a hand on his shoulder.</p><p>“Jaskier,” he said simply.</p><p>The bard cupped his mouth and made one more loud barfing noise before lapsing into silence. His eyes widened and his hands clenched into fists, which he brought close to his lower stomach as he curled in on himself.</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt said again, his annoyance dimming down to mild worry.</p><p>“<i>I’m fine</i>,” Jaskier rasped, finally managing to catch his breath. He raised his head, visible tears on his lashes, his entire face a little too red, but he forced a smile anyway. “Truly, must be the dust. Your mare kicks up quite the cloud and my lungs are sensitive,” he rambled, watching the Witcher’s expression change quickly back into its usual grumpiness. He turned away and Jaskier’s façade fell, as he worriedly looked down at his hands, where a crumbled petal seemed to mock him.</p><p>“Move it, bard,” Geralt called.</p><p>“A-ah, yes!” He yelped, voice still rough as he threw the petals away and wiped the sweat from his forehead and the tears from his eyes.</p><p>He didn’t dwell too much on the fact that this time, Yen was nowhere near them.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>	Another week later, on one night, as they settled in the inn, Jaskier didn’t sing for the crowds. He knew something was wrong, as much as he tried to deny it, and he didn’t want anyone to know. So when Geralt offered him a raised eyebrow when he sat at the table, lute untouched, he shrugged and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.</p><p>“I’m too tired, Geralt dear,” he announced dramatically. Neither mentioned the fact that exhaustion had never stopped the bard from putting on a show before.</p><p>An untrained eye would even say the Witcher looked relieved. Jaskier himself didn’t allow himself to read too much into the way Geralt eyed him critically.</p><p>Soon enough, however, the Witcher went upstairs to bathe, and the bard took his leave in a hurry, letting the innkeeper know he would be back soon.</p><p>Walking out into the chill night, Jaskier pulled his collar up around his neck and walked with long stripes and a bubbling panic back the way they had come. He had seen a healer’s cabin, and he decided he would get some answers. But he felt that burning sensation back in his lungs again and he heaved, stumbling like a drunk man on his feet. He caught himself on a pole and coughed – and sure enough. He found himself holding another of those blood red petals and this time, he clutched it to his chest.</p><p>Reaching the small hut, he knocked loudly, uncaring for the late hour and shortly, an old man with tired eyes and a long beard opened the door.</p><p>“<i>What</i>,” he spit out.</p><p>Jaskier’s wide open eyes and trembling hands were enough to soothe the man’s irritation, however, replacing it with professional interest and prompting a gasp from his when the bard opened his tightly clenched fist and presented the man with the petal.</p><p>“Help me,” he asked, his voice a whisper.</p><p>The man ushered him inside and later introduced himself as Kimshir. A middle aged woman with caramel skin also joined him – Imrir, his apprentice, she introduced herself. They offered him a cup of tea and Jaskier eagerly accepted, anything to relieve the coarse feel in his throat. Imrir walked around, opening and closing windows, seemingly trying to justify her presence in the room as Kimshir disappeared in his study to find his glasses.</p><p>Jaskier barely paid her any mind, clutching the cup in his hands. He didn’t know how much time he had before the inn keeper had enough of him and closed up the place, or before Geralt noticed he was gone.</p><p><i>If he noticed.</i> The traitorous thought slithered in his head, throwing him in another coughing fit, although no petals accompanied it this time. Imrir was at his side in seconds, however.</p><p>Patting this back, she spoke softly, “There, there, shall I get you another cup?”</p><p>“I’m, I really am in a hurry,” Jaskier said, his voice beginning to sound a lot like Geralt’s. Which wasn’t so bad, he thought – Geralt had a beautiful voice. Deep, commanding, but also soothing at the same time.</p><p><i>Why am I thinking about Geralt</i>.</p><p>He began coughing again, although a lot less violently, just as the Kimshir returned with a box, small glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“You may retire, Imrir,” he said with a soft gaze.</p><p>“But master, he has it,” she answered, giving him a meaningful gaze. “Doesn’t he? I-I’m rather curious-“</p><p>“Wait, wait, wait,” Jaskier said, standing up and shaking his hands around. “<i>What</i> exactly do I have?”</p><p>Kimshir sighed heavily and motioned for the bard to sit back down, he himself taking up the armchair opposite of him. Imrir watched the doctor with curious eyes, while he massaged his temples.</p><p>“What’s your name, lad?”</p><p>“Jaskier.”</p><p>“Jaskier, are you in love?”</p><p>The question took him by surprise. <i>No</i>, was the natural answer. He even opened his mouth to say it, but before the word could roll off his tongue, it felt as if someone held him back.</p><p><i>Are you sure?</i> the sly voice pinned him in a corner and he was forced to look it in the eye. He wasn’t in love? Who could he be in love with? The witch? Absolutely not. Yennefer was gorgeous, yes, but he greatly disliked her. She had tried holding him captive… for her own motives. S-she had endangered him! Yes, and she had fucked Geralt. How dare she, while Jaskier was coughing up his own lungs, she had held Geralt from him, <i>how dare she-</i></p><p>“Oh dear,” Jaskier breathed out, as Imrir and Kimshir exchanged a look.</p><p>The bard clutched his chest. No, no, <i>no</i>, that was ridiculous. Yen, h-he hated Yen because… because she was a witch. But she had saved him. She hadn’t done anything with the purpose of hurting him. So why did he dislike her so much?</p><p>Geralt. But he wasn’t in love with Geralt… <i>was he?</i> Fucking Geralt – that was the only solid justification his damned brain could come up with.</p><p>“I-I…” <i>I am in love with Geralt.</i></p><p>Kimshir put a comforting hand on his shoulder, just as the Witcher had done, but his hand had felt so much more warm, familiar and grounding. “It’s alright lad, you don’t have to say it.” He sighed again just as Jaskier raised his gaze to look at him. “What you are suffering from is a rare disease. It is… you poor thing.”</p><p>Panic filled his throat, just like those damned petals had, and he opened his mouth, for the first time at a loss for words.</p><p>Imrir glanced at him like he was a kicked puppy. He felt like one. “It’s the disease of unrequited love,” she explained when the old man couldn’t. “There are flowers seeded in your lungs, nursed there by your ill heart, and they will continue to grow until… until the one who doesn’t share your love does. O-or until you choke on the flowers and… and, well…”</p><p>Jaskier found it hard to process this. He was unsure what response to have. “That’s bollocks,” he resumed to saying.</p><p>“Oh, lad,” Kimshir mumbled. “You saw the petals yourself. It will only get worse. But hope is not lost. The one you love… they must love you back. You can-“</p><p>“That’s… that’s not that simple!” Jaskier snapped, as something in him finally broke and he began breathing faster, his pulse picked up. Imrir rushed to his side but he swatted her hands away. “Th-that’s not-“ <i>He was fucked!</i></p><p>It was so fucking unfair – he didn’t even know if Witchers had feelings in the first place! This surely must count as cheating on the disease’s side. It was bullshit. A-and even if Geralt could have feelings, he didn’t know if he loved another man. He had never given any indication to swing the other way. And even if he happened to be interested in men, why on Earth would he love him, of all people. Him, the most annoying person on the Continent, whom no one could tolerate for more than two days.</p><p>Him, a mere bard. Why would the great White Wolf be interested in a simple fucking bard.</p><p>As his fear began growing faster and faster, something heavy seemed to move in his chest.</p><p>“C-can you help me!?” he demanded in horror. “There <i>has</i> be another way! There must be!”</p><p>“I can give you this tea,” he said, raising the box he had brought in. “It helps with the pain and the scent it releases helps slow the growth in your lungs.”</p><p>“M-master, what about…”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Looking defeated, Kimshir shook his head. “I can cut you open and remove it myself. But it is a magical procedure as much as it is medical, so after that, I am afraid... there is a chance you will never be able to love again.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Jaskier was acting odd.</p><p>He didn’t know what it was or what had prompted it, but the Witcher was by no means blind. Jaskier was up to something.</p><p>He’d been acting strange for a while now, growing more quiet and less obnoxious to the point where Geralt <i>missed</i> his voice, and fuck was that a bad sign.</p><p>With an annoyed groan, he leaned his head against the back of the bathtub. The water had long since cooled and yet he couldn’t bring himself to move. To move would mean seeing the dark bags under Jaskier’s eyes and his slender form which only seemed to grow thinner and thinner with every real meal he moved around his plate instead of eating it. He missed the way he’d stuff his mouth with abandon, barely chewing so he could keep talking, which frankly was disgusting but weirdly entertaining. Like the way he just scratched around the insides of his ear and wiped his fingers on a <i>very</i> used handkerchief, but still knowing these little things made Geralt feel powerful.</p><p>
  <i>What the fuck am I thinking?</i>
</p><p>Geralt snapped himself from his trance as quickly as he had been pulled into it, and quickly brushed over the way his chest felt funny when he thought of Jaskier and focused on what was important:</p><p>There was something odd about Jaskier.</p><p>Looking around the room for the bard, he was suddenly hit with a realisation- it had been almost two hours since he had left him downstairs and he had yet to make his way into the room and demand a bath.</p><p>Geralt stood and as he looked for his clothes, pulling on his underclothes and a comfortable shirt and by the time he had finished polishing his knives and swords, there was still no sign of his bard.</p><p>Look, Geralt wasn’t an easily worried man. Jaskier was an adult man, able to make his own decisions and take care of himself. He could run off and leave the witcher, his main source of income, and his <i>lute</i>--</p><p>
  <i>Fuck that, something’s definitely up.</i>
</p><p>Jaskier was in no condition to look after himself, with his puny form and how much he’d weakened lately. Maybe he was exaggerating, maybe, but it was late and he was probably drunk and he’d never forgive himself if anyone laid a hand on him when he was supposed to protect this absolute moron of a man-</p><p>Slinging the swords over his back, Geralt left the inn with heavy steps, barking a promise to return at a very startled barkeep.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>	Jaskier thanked the two for their hospitality, saying he would think about it. Clutching the box, he trailed back to the inn as he tried to process everything.</p><p>He loved Geralt. And that love was the very thing that would kill him.</p><p>He stopped and gazed up at the sky, throwing his head back. He wanted to cry, and scream and just-</p><p>“Jaskier!”</p><p>Startled, he looked back down and saw the last person he wanted to see.</p><p>Geralt, clad in his armor and looking somewhere between pissed and relieved. His white hair shone in the moonlight, still not quite dry and his eyes, like pools of honey, fixated on the bard.</p><p>He looked ethereal.</p><p>“Where the fuck have you been.”</p><p>And then the gravity of his situation hit Jaskier full force again and he hid the box behind his back, swallowing dry. He forced a lopsided grin as the Witcher came to stand at an arm’s length before him.</p><p>“Ahh, missed my singing, Geralt? What’d you do without me, hm?” He slid past him and walked back towards the inn, followed by a reluctant Gertalt.</p><p>Jaskier cried that night, quietly, hiding the salty tears in the bath.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. my age to be and age to come</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is so much longer than the first one eye-</p><p>english is not my first language, what is a verb tense, and i have no beta read at ur own risk. comments and kudos are BIG apprecitation ly all</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Petals continued to force their way up his throat the following weeks as they continued to fight monsters and run into Yennefer, and, true to Kimshir’s word, the pain worsened. The one or two petals began to turn into five or six at a time, and hiding them from Geralt became harder and harder because Roach would always throw a fuss every time he fell to the ground, refusing to let his friend help him.</p><p>It hurt so much, in the days they would meet the witch, that Jaskier would disappear until they had to leave again. On the road, he became quieter as his throat got more and more damaged from the constant coughing and the scraping of the petals, which seemed so soft in his palms yet so sharp in his lungs.</p><p>He didn’t sing anymore.</p><p>Geralt realized something was <i> truly</i> wrong when the days and nights, usually filled with the bard’s never-ending chatter and laughter, began to eat at the Witcher’s sense of safety and calm with their quiet. He should feel relieved that his travel companion had finally decided to shut his mouth, but he had grown so accustomed to the noise, that the lack of it made him uneasy.</p><p>And Jaskier looked more miserable by the day. </p><p>“What’s wrong with you?”</p><p>Jaskier jumped at the sound of his voice, his silhouette obstructed by the flames of the campfire dividing them. He curled back in on himself and averted his hollow eyes from the Witcher.</p><p>“Nothing,” he said.</p><p>Geralt grunted and poked at the twigs. “You’re awfully quiet,” he prompted, expecting the bard’s usual remark that he missed his singing. He wished then, desperately, to see his crooked grin and hear his wit.</p><p>But it never came.</p><p>“I guess I am,” Jaskier concluded, and his voice, for the first time, sounded weirdly unnatural to Geralt. It resembled his.</p><p>When they finally went to sleep, their routine didn’t skip Jaskier’s horrible coughing fit, during which Geralt tried to comfort him but was violently refused as the bard crawled away from the campsite, made sounds as if he threw up, and then shook all night trying to get sleep.</p><p>Geralt never noticed his newly acquired habit of replacing the ale they’d drink together with tea from a mysterious wooden box.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>The first time Jaskier coughed up an entire flower was during the dragon hunt. When they had spotted Yen for the first time, he had begun coughing again, five blood red petals, but this time, Geralt didn’t notice it. As much as he hid it, Borch eyed him with curiosity.</p><p>Geralt agreed to the dragon hunt.</p><p>On that second night, Geralt disappeared after Yennefer as everyone retreated to their tents, leaving Jaskier alone by the campfire. Shortly after, he began coughing.</p><p>It felt so much more different than before, and he knew something was off. He had grown used to the petals, the way they slashed and tickled his throat. This time, it felt as if something had ripped itself from his lung and trashed and trashed, up his throat, fighting his attempt to kick it out. In his panic, he barely noticed a hand on his shoulder, too weak to swat it away. He coughed for what felt like hours, as a feeling of hopelessness mixed with the pain, leaving him hollow and filled to the brim at the same time, emotion bubbling up his throat, slashing at the soft flesh of his body until he found himself laying back in someone’s arms, limbs limp, holding something impossibly soft in his clenched fists. He blinked weakly, and the vague silhouette of a man appeared before his eyes.</p><p>He couldn’t find it in him to panic, as a familiar voice rang in his ears.</p><p>“So I was not wrong.”</p><p>It sounded as if Borch was somewhere miles beneath water, his breath like a distant wind on Jaskier’s face as the older man attempted to help him lean against the log he had been sitting on minutes before. The fire was almost out, everyone probably tucked in for the night, getting some well deserved rest.</p><p>Perhaps except for one particular couple.</p><p>Jaskier felt something tickle the back of his throat again at the thought, and he was thrown in another coughing fit, less violent but painful nonetheless. Borch pat his back until a petal flew from his lips.</p><p>Which reminded him…</p><p>Almost shaking, he looked down at his palms and his breath hitched in his already damaged throat: he wasn’t holding a petal, or two, or five. He was holding an entire flower, drenched in blood, yet soft and warm, fluttering in the late night wind. Its tulip had been cut off and before Jaskier could react, a soft sigh escaped Borch.</p><p>When their eyes met, the bard gave a soft, defeated smile and said, voice hoarse, the metallic taste of blood painting his every word. “You got me.”</p><p>“Oh, bard...”</p><p>“I’ll take a wild guess,” he croaked, “and assume you can’t help me.”</p><p>All he received was a tight smile.</p><p>They sat in silence for a while. Borch was tense, but he rubbed his back in a comforting manner, which Jaskier appreciated. He didn’t know if it was just residual exhaustion or death’s clock tempting his tired mind, but as he sat hunched by the fire, selfishly drinking in the other man’s company, the pain numbed to a dull ache and he was able to suck in air through his mouth without any pain for the first time in months.</p><p>It was insane.</p><p>“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”</p><p>It didn’t hurt to talk. Jaskier could cry.</p><p>“You too should be asleep.”</p><p>He snorted and he slowly unfurled from his fetal position. “I think my situation is a tad more exotic.”</p><p>Borch chuckled and Jaskier’s lips curled into the first honest smile since he’d seen that healer. “Indeed, you’ve got yourself quite the situation.” He was quiet for a moment before asking softly, “It’s the witcher, isn’t it?”</p><p>Jaskier opened his mouth to deny, but the weight of the flower in his hand stopped him.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Borch nodded and sighed, leaning back against the wooden trunk they had used as a seat hours before. Jaskier allowed himself to do the same. He didn’t know why the universe was giving him this short moment of relief, but he hadn’t been able to swallow pain-free since forever and he’d always been an opportunistic man.</p><p>Always selfish.</p><p>“Have you heard that Witchers don’t have emotions?” he found himself asking when the silence had stretched enough. </p><p>Borch hummed. “How true can a tale be.”</p><p>Jaskier let out a snort. His next words were laced with self depreciation. “I should know.”</p><p>"I wouldn't bet my life on a tale."</p><p>"I can't tell him." </p><p>"There's much more to you than you let on," Borch said and Jaskier frowned. "But you don't give yourself enough credit."</p><p>"I'm bothering him enough as it is."</p><p>"You're not a burden to people who chose to side with you."</p><p>"He never chose this," he muttered, exhaustion hitting him as he flailed his arms. "I just, kinda, tagged along. This is the last thing he needs."</p><p>"It's good then, that this is not about him."</p><p>"Who the fuck is it about then, huh?" </p><p>Borch smiled at him, a sad, tight smile, and yet not an ounce of pity on his face. "You sing so many tales about others, Sir Jaskier, you seem to forget that you yourself are a song." </p><p>The old man looked away and Jaskier felt cornered.</p><p>They lapsed into quiet again and this time, Jaskier was content with watching the stars, his breath smooth and relaxed, lost in thought, the old man's words playing around in his head.</p><p>When an arm was laid on his shoulder, he realised he had started crying.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>”You’re not here for me,” said Yennefer as soon as Geralt entered her tent.</p><p>He frowned and looked around, seemingly at a loss. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He’d come here for a distraction, and it appeared he wouldn’t get it.</p><p>Impossibly ember eyes moved up and met purple, but her gaze felt distant, as if even if she was looking at him, she was seeing something else, someone else, behind him. He turned around to glance at the closed flap of the tent, just for good measure and Yennefer huffed.</p><p>”Who else would I be here for?”</p><p>”You’ve got something on your mind.”</p><p>Geralt groaned and moved by her, sitting on the plush bed. It was ridiculous how luxurious her small abode was compared to his worn out sleeping bag. He could get used to the feather mattress. But she was right, he wasn’t here for that. He was here to get some answers.</p><p>”It’s Jaskier.”</p><p>Yennefer nodded along. “Your bard.”</p><p>Geralt groaned again but didn’t correct her. Jaskier was his friend, he couldn’t deny that anymore, as much as he enjoyed the way it rattled the young man’s feathers. He was so easy to rile up, it was ridiculous, and Geralt tried to do it as much as possible, just for the hell of it. His face flushed so easy and he always had a comeback, clever words ready on his tongue, ready to fire them right back at the Witcher. Even Roach had grown to like him, which to Geralt was the main sign that he couldn’t deny how much he-</p><p>”He’s acting weird.”</p><p>Yennefer arched a thin eyebrow, pouring some concoction that smelled like liquour – which was good enough for Geralt – and handing him a glass.</p><p>”What do you mean?”</p><p>This time, Geralt huffed in frustration, drowning the entire glass. He threw his arm out as if that would help prove his point. “He just is! He’s coughing all the time, maybe he’s sick? He’s been so quiet, I think I’ve fucking forgotten what his voice sounds like at this point. It’s-“ Yennefer cocked her head. </p><p>“It’s infuriating!”</p><p>With a sigh, the witch sat next to him and sipped from her own glass, letting the conversation die for a minute. Geralt felt exhausted suddenly.</p><p>”Have you spoken to him?”</p><p>”Why would I speak to him?”</p><p>It was Yennefer’s turn to groan and lay back on the bed. Geralt strained his neck to turn to look at her. There was a fog in her eyes, as one gets when thinking of old times. </p><p>”The best way to lose Jaskier is not talk to her- him. I mean-“ Standing abruptly, she eyed him curiously and finished her drink. “You’re a moron, Geralt. Go ask him what’s wrong.”</p><p><br/>
</p><p>“<i>How is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days it’s you shovelling it!?</i>”</p><p> For almost a week following his descent from the mountain, Jaskier drinks. </p><p>He absentmindedly throws a pouch of coin in one of Roaches' bags and completely ignores her huff of concern. He feels numb and hurt and only one sentence clogs his poor mind. </p><p> <i>”If destiny could give me one gift it would be to take you off my hands!”</i> </p><p> It hurts to even think about it. He still hears it, still sees the words roll from his tongue and it hurts so much because it’s true. He’s a joke, he’s just a stupid bard who follows around like some stupid dog and makes messes and expects <i>him</i> to clean after him. </p><p> He has never hated himself more. </p><p>When he reaches the bottom of the mountain, he joins a band of travellers and they take him to the nearest town. It’s already dark when he enters the inn. His lute is a horrible weight on his shoulder, the journal where he’d thrown together a half hearted recollection of the fight from the dwarves almost burning a hole in his bag. </p><p>He knows this pub. The bartender, Rasao, nods at him when he enters. He’d held countless shows here, but all of that feels distant. Rasao’s smile disappears when they see Jaskier’s face. A concerned nod towards a more empty part of the bar and he takes that as his cue to begin his night. </p><p> He sits down- he plops down like a wet cloth-and he <i> drinks</i>. </p><p> He chugs mug after mug until Rasao’s face looks a little blurry and he feels like the room is spinning. More ale, and the floors start swinging furiously, and then he drinks some more because his entire body hurts and he still remembers. It takes another few rounds for the stool to disappear from underneath him, and for Rasao’s face to become a simple blob of colour. He laughs, or cries, he can’t tell, but he drinks some more until he’s coughing something out and with the final mug of ale, he can’t even remember what his name is. He doesn’t know where he is or why he’s drinking, but he orders another one just for good measure. </p><p> The blob of colour tells him something and he doesn’t receive a refill, which is odd. He must’ve forgotten to ask so he demands another tankard and he is welcomed by a steady hand on his shoulder and an arm around his waist pulling him up. The slender figure of this entity is unfamiliar to him, but so is everything else, and he is thrown on a pile of thick blankets in a warm room, and he passes out as soon as his head hits a soft pillow.</p><p>He doesn’t sleep much. He keeps waking up to throw up, or because the room is too hot or too cold. He can’t do much about it though, because he can’t feel his legs and half the times when he opens his eyes to search the darkness, it takes him a moment to figure out whether or not he’s still alive. He stays in bed until the late afternoon, until he knows he can walk again and goes downstairs, where Rasao welcomes him with a tight smile on their lips.</p><p>They almost force food down his throat, a glass of water, after which Jaskier feels somewhat better. It doesn’t last though, as by dusk, he’s back at the bar, repeating his routine.</p><p>So it takes a week for Rasao to threaten to throw him out if he doesn’t stop drinking. He has half a mind to ask them to do so, but he relents. It’s kind enough of them to house him without taking his coin.</p><p>On the eight day, Jaskier asks Rasao for something to do. He figures work will be a good distraction if ale isn’t available any longer. He tries serving drinks and food to patrons, but after six people complain that he’s making them depressed with his attitude, Rasao sends him in the back. He cleans rooms and tends to a garden, pushes himself all day so he can pass out without problem at night.</p><p>He keeps coughing, petals and flowers keep making their way up his throat but he can’t tell that pain apart from the one he inflicts on himself by working all day. </p><p>On one particularly stubborn night, Jaskier finds himself staring at the ceiling of his room. He remembers Imrir and Kimshir, and he makes up his mind.</p><p>He leaves the next day, a fortnight after arriving at Rasao’s inn, and thanks them for everything. Rasao does their best not to scream when they see their friend, pale as paper and thin like a twig, lips blood red and eyes sunken in.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>”Master! Master, it’s him! The man with the-“</p><p>”Where!?” </p><p>The old man and his apprentice welcome Jaskier with open arms yet again. He lays down, drained and exhausted. He can’t talk much, but he does apologise for losing the tea box.</p><p>”Non-sense, lad,” Kimshir reassures him. “So have you made up your mind?”</p><p>Jaskier is hesitant. Back when he began wandering the world, he never thought he’d end up here. He never saw this as the end of his journey. He never thought that Geralt, the man who saved his life, would be the death of him.</p><p>But it didn’t have to be that way, did it? Kimshir was patiently waiting by him, Imrir’s steady hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles, he felt a little more alive. There was a way out of this bullshit, and they were offering it to him. Geralt- he- he didn’t care anyway, did he? He swallowed dryly. He remembered what Borch had told him.</p><p>
  <i> It's good then, that this is not about him."</i>
</p><p>Imrir disappeared behind a curtain and the healer eyed him with curiosity. “He didn’t confess, did he?” Jaskier shook his head. “You didn’t talk to him either.”</p><p>”I didn’t want him to say he loves me just because I’m dying.”</p><p>Kimshir lowered his head and held his face in his hands. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway. He must mean it.” There was another layer to his words, one that felt old and heavy like the world, but he didn’t prod.</p><p>He accepted the cup of tea that was offered by the apprentice, and met Kimshir’s eyes with a newfound spark.</p><p>”I, uh… I’ve made up my mind.”</p><p>Kimshir didn’t congratulate him. He didn’t berate him. He said nothing, in fact, just nodding and squeezing his shoulder.</p><p>”Tomorrow then. I must gather some things.”</p><p>”I’m sure you must want to rest,” said Imrir, and Jaskier turned to look at her. There was pity and hope and respect in her hardened eyes. “I can draw a bath for you?”</p><p>”Actually-“ Jaskier coughed and gazed at his cup. “I-is there a garden? Do you have a garden?”</p><p>A grin curled the ends of Kimshir’s mouth and he nodded.</p><p>Imrir led him through the shop to a back door, which led to a tiny interior garden, tucked away behind the building. It was surrounded by walls, dressed in overgrown ivy and, despite the way it seemed to be hidden, sunlight peeked in between thick vines which served as a roof. There was a pond by the door, little ducklings padding away at the shallow water. Flowers of all colours shone in the early afternoon, and he let out a sigh.</p><p>The two laid in the grass, staring straight ahead at the bright blue sky hiding behind the greenery. He was easily taken back to that night on the mountain with Borch, when he’d felt at ease. But what had come next-</p><p>”What will happen to me? If I don’t let you cut me open.”</p><p>She seemed hesitant to answer. “You’ll choke on the flowers. There’ll be too many, and they will clog your airways. Your lungs will pop. They’ll squeeze your heart until it explodes.”</p><p>Jaskier winced.</p><p>”It’s not hopless.”</p><p>”It’s certain that I will lose the ability to love as I do, isn’t it?”</p><p>He heard her draw in a sharp breath before a soft hand took his. It was soothing, so he let her. “The chance that you won’t is small.”</p><p><i>Love.</i> What a feeble concept, if all it took for it to be ruined was a little blooming flower in the wrong place. Jaskier had always loved, with all his being. He fell hopelessly in love with people, with places, with anything. He loved music. He loved like there was no tomorrow, because before, love had been free. Love was the one thing that kept things bright, what cruel irony was it, that love would be his killer. It was poetic, it was something he’s write about, were it not him at the end of the sword.</p><p>”I cannot imagine being unable to love,” he found himself whispering.</p><p>”Days won’t be bright for a while,” he heard Imrir answer after a few seconds. “Things will seem muddy. But you see, Jaskier, love comes in many shapes.” She sighed and shifted, and he could see her eyes boring holes in the side of his head. “Master Kimshir… he was where you are.”</p><p>
  <i>What?</i>
</p><p>As he began coughing, Imrir stood up on her elbows and he turned his head to look at her. Her voice was distracting. “I've never loved anyone. I can’t. I don’t know why. But I have my own way, my own special way of caring. It took me years to accept it. There is nothing wrong with it. But master… he was like you. He loved everyone without hesitation. He loved too much and too deeply. He loved his best friend. It was love in its purest form, so when his best friend didn’t love him back, he fell ill. Like you. He underwent the procedure, and it destroyed him.”</p><p>He didn’t understand why he was being told this story, but it was slowly lulling him to sleep. Imrir didn’t seem to like that, insisting he was to learn something from this. He smiled with his cracked lips and it didn’t hurt.</p><p>”When I found him, he was lost. See, his view was too narrow. There are so many things to love, but he didn’t see them. He’d only lost a <i> way</i> to love, not the emotion itself. I helped him along the way. He helped me. What I’m telling you, Jaskier, is you can stay here. As long as you wish. If you feel there is no way, we’ll prove you wrong. There’s so much love in the world, it’s a shame to stay blind to it.”</p><p>The bard found himself beaming up at her. ”Thank you.”</p><p>She laid back down and they sat in silence for a while, when there was a loud banging at the door. Imrir excused herself and he was so exhausted, so tired, but for once, he was hopeful.</p><p>He was not afraid anymore. Imrir was right. Whatever happened, he would love with his all and hope for the best.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>”What the fuck are you doing here?”</p><p>”Yen, please-“</p><p>Yennefer stopped in her tracks and turned on her heels to see Geralt looking utterly disheveled from running down the mountain. There was hurt in his eyes, but she felt it wasn’t directed at her.</p><p>”What part of leave me alone did you not hear?!”</p><p>”Yen-“</p><p>”Just <i> go</i>, Geralt. Your place is not with me, and right now if I have to look at you for another second I’ll rip out your guts.”</p><p>”I fucked up, Yen.”</p><p>”You’re chasing down the wrong side of this mountain. Apologise, it won’t kill you. Now get the fuck out of my face-“</p><p><br/>
</p><p>He awoke to a hand running through his hair. His head was laid on something soft, yet firm, and he’d never felt more relaxed. Numbness spread through his body like wildfire, and he sighed.</p><p>The had stopped and he almost opened his eyes to tell who he assumed to be Imrir to continue, but it resumed on its own.</p><p>”I’m sorry.”</p><p>That was not Imrir’s voice. That was a gruff, a low and yet incredibly soft voice. His entire body tensed, but Jaskier was <i>tired</i>. He was so, so tried and he couldn’t- he, he didn’t have the energy for this- not anymore-</p><p>Geralt must’ve sensed his unrest, because he shifted in his spot and hushed quietly. “Jaskier, please. I am so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t realise something was wrong sooner. I pushed you to the edge. I’m sorry.”</p><p>”Where’s Yennefer?”</p><p>Geralt snorted. “Chasing her own broken romance.”</p><p>The bard turned his head, away from Geralt. He could feel the muscles in the Witcher’s thigh tense, as if he were afraid he would run away.</p><p>”You don’t have to do this, Geralt.”</p><p>The other man hummed. “I know.”</p><p>”I don't <i> want</i> you to <i> have</i> to do this.”’</p><p>”I know.”</p><p>”You can leave if you want.”</p><p>”I can.”</p><p> <i>There’s so much love in the world, it’s a shame to stay blind to it.</i> </p><p>”You can-“</p><p>”I love you, Jaskier.”</p><p>His confession was met with quiet and right as he began to think it had fallen on deaf ears, or worse, Jaskier didn’t believe him, the bard began shaking. Tears streamed down his face, and in an instant, calloused hands were there to wipe them away, as if he were something precious, something worth protecting.</p><p>Slowly, so, <i>so</i> slowly, the Witcher leaned down, ignoring the muscles of his back crying out at the odd position, and pressed his lips to Jaskier’s. It was soft, and full of promises and Geralt could just about cry. He’d imagined his lips would be soft, like clouds and a summer breeze, but sickness, that damned disease, had turned them chapped and dead skin from being picked at fell right off when they parted ways. He was careful, as his bard moved up and his fragile body seemed to instantly fit into the Witcher’s arms. Geralt leaned in again and his hand came up to cup the other’s face.</p><p>It felt unreal and every time he remembered what he’d, him, Geralt, with his idiotic fears and confusion and denial, his heart hurt a little more, but with every swipe of lips, with every breath against his skin, Jaskier seemed to regain a bit of his strength.</p><p>”Say it again,” Jaskier whispered whenever they parted.</p><p>”I love you.”</p><p>”Again.”</p><p>”I love you.”</p><p>”I love you too.”</p><p>By the time Imrir came outside to light up the lanterns strung around the little garden, the two were laying together in the grass, Geralt having thrown a protective hand over Jaskier’s waist, staring at his sleeping face with a soft smile. He hadn’t seen the bard rest like this in months at this point, and he swore, in that moment, that nothing would disturb him again.</p><p>”Thank you,” he said out loud, and he wasn’t sure who he was thanking, but he’d never been this grateful.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Bonus:<br/>”…and then he asked me, and I fucking quote,” Yennefer said, sitting upright in the bed, the sheets pooling around her hips, and mocking Geralt’s voice, “<i>why would I speak to him</i>.”</p><p>”He did <i>not</i>! That’s less self awareness than you!”</p><p>Yennefer spluttered, looking offended. “Darling! I have always been extremely conscious of my own actions! Slander!”</p><p>Tissaia gave her an unimpressed look. “That makes things worse, to be perfectly frank.”</p><p>Yennefer grumbled something along the lines of ‘I hoped you’d think delinquency is hot’ as she laid back down.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so there's this edit on ig and I get so emotional everytime I see it I swear it's what finally inspired me to write this. idk what I'm doing, it's short but oh well hope u enjoyed nonetheless. </p><p>Check out my tumblr <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/raeyhem">@raeyhem</a> !</p></blockquote></div></div>
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